Children of Hell
by Lufthexe
Summary: She is innocence, she is his salvation, but she is insistent, and he is ever the willing servant. A collection of Bane/Talia oneshots. Mature content and themes
1. Bands of Flesh and Blood

Instead of a band of metal, he gives her flesh. When they dedicate themselves to each other, to the fire once Rha's al Ghul has perished, they write it in blood, forging themselves warriors of the League and destroyers of Gotham. He carves his allegiance into her honey-colored skin, watching her closely for an indication of pain, but she gives none, holding his gaze as he cuts into her, focusing more closely on the warmth of his hand around her waist than the blood that runs down her back.

He has garnered so many scars—wounds that refuse to heal and seep still, every one a demonstration of his self-sacrifice, that she has insisted he carve himself into her, so she too may bear a scar worth remembering; a scar the is a testament to her dedication.

He does not ask this of her. He would not ask anything of her; the child who saved him from the darkness, for it is to her that a debt is owed. But she knows the truth of it, knows the sacrifice he has made and the way he must suffer daily simply for giving her a chance at freedom. His mask serves as a constant reminder, much as the scars she finds as her fingertips trace over his chest and down his spine.

He does not want to do this to her, to mar her skin in any way that would reflect the monster of a man he has become. He does not want her to become like him; an abnormality, a beast. She is innocence, she is his salvation, but she is insistent, and he is ever the willing servant.

When she slides down onto him, his large hands guiding her hips and his eyes closing for a moment to revel in the pleasure, he is but a tool of her desire as she places the knife in his fist, and as she guides his hand to her back, where she has determined for him to pierce, he is lost to the roll of her hips and the knife slips into her skin more easily than it should have, more easily than he wanted it to. For all of his practiced self-control Bane is lost, and skin slices and blood flows and Talia is bearing down on top of him, her head thrown back and mouth grinning as her chest heaves, the blood tangling with sweat and the sting of the blade a sharp contrast to the pleasure of Bane bucking his hips into her, his girth straining her as it always had.

She comes undone when the brand is finished, the blade sliding out of her as Bane grips the knife in clenched fists, her blood sliding down over her hips and onto his stomach, and he watches with sick fascination as she is reborn; the child of innocence and born of hell is transformed into the Demonhead, her blood shed for cause, her Protector's name on her lips.

But she does not stop, and she will have him know he is hers, completely, as his large palms slip in the blood that has coated her back and smear it down her thigh, gripping her as she marks him as hers; not by pain as he has done, but by pleasure. For only Talia can break through the haze of the medicine that numbs him to all, save her. And his head is knocked back to the floor, his breath a heavy hiss through the mask as he comes undone at the mercy of her thrusts, her smile feral as she shows him exactly who can bring him pleasure, as well as pain.

Years later, when Bruce Wayne asks her what the scar on her back is from, she will respond that it was an old mistake. And it was, truly. Not the scar, but the absence of any others; leaving her Protector in the Pit, letting him take the blows that were meant for her. It is one she will never forget, and never truly repay.


	2. First Kill

The first time he kills a man in front of her, she does not scream, as he expects. She is a small thing, clutching at her mother's leg when he strangles the man who was propositioning her and her mother, reaching his grimy hands through the bars of their cell to grab at their clothes, reaching for the only speck of innocence left in this hell. And when the man slumps to the floor, dead, he glances over to the young child and her mother, fully expecting screams or tears but instead sees small eyes full of relief.

It is a small comfort, but he will take it.

Years later, he will kill for her again.

She is training at the League, limbs still gangly and tousled hair a mess of knots, but she is learning the ways of stealth and how to kill, and why the fire must rise. But not all of the men take her seriously, this wisp of a child, the so called daughter of Rha's al Ghul; and when she spars with such a man he takes her down mercilessly, seeking more to showcase his strength rather than to teach, and he plunges a hidden knife into her thigh to prove that she is no heir, she is merely a small girl the bleeds and screams prettily.

The sound of her scream will forever haunt Bane, echoing in the base of his skull and reverberating through his bones.

This man dies slower, much more agonizingly slow as his transgressions are more severe. His jugular is severed and he bleeds out at Talia's feet, the gurgling of blood at his lips and his nails scratching at the floor, pressing, clutching his gaping wound in the futile hope of staunching the bleeding. Bane prefers to kill with his hands rather than knives piercing skin, but for this man he will make an exception, as it was his blade that pierced Talia's flesh, it is only fitting that it should be Bane's knife to end him. As Bane gathers her into his arms, intent on the healer's room as her blood stains her pants and the adrenaline in her veins causes her heart to beat furiously against him, she looks up to him with something close to adoration, and for a minute he is frozen, stuck in this moment where she looks at him as though he is infallible, and he can feel his heart swelling in his chest, this unbidden emotion choking him and causing him to look away, holding her just a little closer as he carries her down the hall.

Her first kill will be a on a mission from her father.

Bane thinks her young, too young to be playing at deception and dealing death, but her father has announced her ready, and Bane is fortunate enough to be assigned with her as protection, so he does not argue. It is not a hard mission, truly. One of Rha's contacts had strayed from loyalty, offering bits of information about the League to whomever will pay him the most. And so Talia goes to the lavish dinner party acting the part of a rich investor who is looking to learn about the League. Bane takes to the shadows, acting as a sentry, his mask too obtrusive to allow for blending into such refined society. Talia laughs convincingly at the target's quips, catching his gaze with a coy smile and finishing off her glass of champagne, her dark eyes flashing at the man in a way the makes Bane's lips curl, his fists tightening until he can hear his knuckles pop.

He is lucky he is already slated to die at Talia's hand, for the death Bane would give him would be much less merciful.

This traitor is meant to be an example to the others; proof of her father's influence and ability to infiltrate any security, and so when she kills him in the study of the mansion, she does not worry for the blood or the noise they make. They are meant to find the body. She lures him in with a flutter of her eyelashes and a steady sway of her hips to the room that she knows Bane is in, lurking within the darkness, her faithful shadow. This is new to her, for she has pretended to be a man for so long that acting as a woman has always struck her as a bit ridiculous. This overt flirtation-surely most men did not enjoy this lack of subtlety. But he is entranced, and it makes her job all that much easier when he closes the door to the room securely only to receive a blow to the head from one of her stockinged legs. He crashes to the ground, barely catching himself by his hands before she is upon him, flipping him over and pummeling him, the shimmering fabric of her dress riding up her thighs as she snarls at him, his nose broken and blood streaming from his mouth. Talia looks at him, trying to summon her hatred for him, for the betrayal to her father as her blows continue to rain down on him, but her fists tremble as she thinks of killing this man. For he has not harmed her directly, nor has he harmed Bane, and so it is difficult to bring herself to hate him. She trembles, lost, and looks to Bane, who has emerged from the shadows in order to ensure the mission's fulfillment. However, as much as he wishes it, Bane cannot fulfill Talia's orders for her, and while his heart aches for the innocence he sees in her eyes, he meets her frightened gaze and tells her, sternly, "finish it."

For Bane, she can do it.

It is a knife slipping into the base of his skull that kills him, and by the time he dies Talia feels more relief than anything else.

They slip out of the estate, setting the premises aflame and watching as the fire rises.

They spend the night in a place a few towns over before their flight to return to the mountains, allowing themselves a few precious hours to try and unwind from the mission. Talia enters the room without talking, dropping her small bag and heading straight for the shower, undoubtedly going to strip herself of her elaborate gown and washing away what blood has splattered against her exposed skin.

Bane realizes something is wrong when the sounds of water running are still audible an hour later. He does not want to infringe on her privacy, and rasps on the door loudly, his muffled voice questioning "Talia?" and receiving no response.

It takes only one try for the door to splinter under the weight of his shoulder, kicking his entryway clear as he strides quickly to where the shower curtain is drawn. He hesitates, still trepidatious, before pulling away the curtain, his eyes searching for his little one. And he finds her, curled up on the floor of the tub, her knees drawn to her chin as her dark hair cascades down around her naked body, curtaining her face from him.

His heart—he is sure that some part of it has fractured.

Stepping into the tub, Bane lets the water soak through his clothes, the spray now ice cold as he gathers Talia into his arms, her skin prickled against the warmth of his hands. Her constant shivering is a heavy weight in his chest as he carries her quickly to the bed at the center of the room, burying her in towels and blankets, his heavy coat an added weight that she gingerly slips her arms through, pulling it around her tightly.

In all the years Bane has known her, he has never seen her look so broken; not even in the Pit, and it enrages him. It is so easy in the League, easy to forget a person's age, or experience, or how many deaths they have to their name, because they are all the same in the League. But Talia was the only innocent thing to survive the Pit, and it burns that that too has been stolen from her. He pulls her close to him and lifts her chin gently to meet his gaze, trying to see what has become of his Talia. She looks up at him through heavy eyelashes, dampened with water droplets, just barely, but he still catches the wave of regret and sadness that ripples through her.

"Talia.." he whispers, barely audible but loud enough for her to look up at him again, and she can see the way he feels responsible, mourning for her lost innocence. She hates that he now suffers again on her behalf, and wraps her arms around his neck, eventually falling asleep against his chest like she used to in the Pit, the steady beat of his heart lulling her. Bane stays awake for much longer, his chest aching for his little one, and how cruel it was to turn a the child of a princess into a killer.

It is close to a year later that Bane leaves the League. Talia mourns his loss, and it only serves to fuel her rage.

It is years before Bane sees her again, as Rha's excommunicates him while Talia is away on a mission, and there is no way to leave her a message with his intended plan, because he does not know where he will go without her. The prospect of living without her is enough to bring him back to memories of the Pit, to the years after she had Risen, his days an eternal torment as the agony of his wounds were tempered only by the thought of her escaping this hell. He drifts from country to country, building a name for himself; for her, so that he may be useful when she has need of him.

And when she finds him, just as she found him when she returned to the Pit, she is not the same girl he knew, her sword slitting the throat of one of the men guarding his tent, her eyes hard and cold, only turning warm once she turns her sights on him. His eyes read pride, but also sadness, at seeing her now so hardened to death, so unlike the frightened child he held after she had made her first kill. But once she has wiped the blood off of her sword, she returns to him, folding into his arms as though she had never left.

The last time they kill someone, they do it together.

It is the end of days, the fruition of Gotham's Liberation. In less than twenty minutes Gotham will taste the fire, but Bruce Wayne will not get that pleasure. When Talia slips the knife between his ribs, Bane savors the way utter betrayal looks on his face, as he gasps for a woman who never existed. And when she finally reveals her true heritage to the Bat, she looks to him, her faithful protector, and reconnects the tubing that allows him to withstand the pain that plagues him constantly. He winds the rope around Wayne's neck tightly, choking him as she speaks of her hardships. Her eyes meet his, and they can both see the fire; how they will all burn. She revels in it, but Bane wishes, however pointlessly, that she will be spared. Talia does not deserve to share the fate of Gotham; his fate. But she will burn for her father's dream, and he will burn for her, his little one come Demonhead, who will command his loyalty until his skin is seared and his bones charred.


	3. What If

Sometimes, when it is late at night and she cannot sleep, Talia lets her mind consider the 'what ifs'. What if she didn't find her father. What if Rha's hadn't died. What if Batman had been killed on the train.

What if she hadn't Risen.

What if she had stayed and made a life with Bane in the Pit-sometimes she thinks she might have been happier that way, before remembering what the Pit was really like. It was easy to romanticize something after it languished away in memory. But it was not a bad thought to have, though, truly.

She would have blossomed under Bane's constant tutelage and supervision, she was sure. While it might not have been the same training she received at the League, it would have been enough to survive. Bane's knowledge of the outside world used to astound her as a young child, with his stories of open land and endless lakes of water. Everything he knew, he would have taught her, she was certain. As she got older, he would have taught her more than just self-defense; he would teach her how to best kill a man, in order to survive longer in the Pit. He would eventually let her go and fight for her own food, a task she had never been allowed to do before. And perhaps it would not have been so bad in the cool nights when the heat of the summer tempered, once she was older and no longer in need of protection, to lay by Bane's side and to feel more than the warmth of his skin and hard lines of muscles.

To feel _heat_.

It would...it would be different in the Pit, Talia surmised. There was no room for long pondering thoughts, or staring wistfully at him while she thought him distracted. In a way, her absence from the Pit had worked to her advantage. It had been so long since she had seen him, that once they freed him from the Pit, that she was a completely different person. No more was the timid child with gangly limbs and ribs that showed under sallow skin; no, she had transformed and was almost a woman, curves where there once were bones jutting from skin, her hair now tumbling in dark curls past her shoulder. She had changed, and with such a drastic evolution it was easier for Bane to see her as more than just a girl.

It would not be so in the Pit.

The changes would be much more gradual, and her hair would likely stay shorn until she was strong enough to defend against all who would hurt a woman in the Pit. It would be so much more difficult to make Bane see that she was no longer a child.

But the wait would be worth it.

Perhaps he'd notice the way her changing anatomy pressed against him as they slept curled against each other; maybe he'd see her exposed flesh when she washed the grime from her body with the rainwater they had collected. But Talia doubted that. Her stalwart protector-he would forever harden himself against lustful thoughts, for her sake. She would have to be the one to make the move.

The thought brought a smile to her face.

How fun it would have been, to tease him there in the Pit with something he was likely deprived of for most (if not all) of his life. While Bane was a force to be reckoned with among the other inmates, she knew how much self control he practiced, even when others would label him a monster.

It would be a hard task, to break through his hard-won reserve and emotional barriers.

But oh, so worth it, as she knew only too well now.

And maybe, once he learned to look past the child he helped raise and onto the young woman who thrived in the deepest of hells; maybe then they could build a makeshift life together, there in the Pit. They would always know hunger, but they would survive; she would learn the names of the constellations that she could see from the mouth of the Pit as her head rested against Bane's shoulder; she would learn the story and path of each of his scars and trace them slowly in the dark, their affection hidden by the shadows from the other prisoners. And she would kiss him, god, would she kiss him; his face not marred because she would not have escaped. He would not bear the daily torment, and she would not feel this all-consuming guilt, day in and day out. It was a heady thought; his lips tracing quivering flesh, his tongue darting into her mouth, and it created a rush of longing that Talia was not expecting.

Distractedly, Talia notes that her hand has slipped beneath her silken garments to try and ease the ache that has grown steadily within her ever since the thought of enticing Bane presented itself.

Talia would bite into the muscles of his shoulder to stifle a moan as he slipped into her, his body arching over hers as they twisted and writhed with unadulterated pleasure; the satisfaction so much more potent in a place so filled with pain. And she would come undone for him in the shadows, muffling the scream that threatened to echo through the Pit as she rode the waves of pleasure, moving silently on their cot as the meager light of the moon filtered through the bars of their cell. She wanted to hear the way his gasps sounded with no mask there to muffle their sound, his warm breath against her neck sending shivers down her spine as her name hovered on the tip of his tongue-a benediction, a prayer. If he was to be her Bane, then she would be his blessing, a spot of happiness born in the darkest of places.

And while they would be deprived of modern comforts, Talia knew she would trade in her penthouse apartment and all of her expensive clothes for a fire and a blanket with Bane at her side.

Talia comes gasping apart, her mind imagining phantom touches and caresses from calloused hands, Bane's name on her lips, threatening to rip her apart with the heat of her need, the rush of empty elation that came at her own hands; hands that were not strong or thick or rough enough.

It was never enough, without him there to do what he had come to desire as well.

It is a while before Talia feels her body relax again, her pulse slowly descending as her breath comes to her in more even draws, her hands still trembling slightly from the satisfaction.

But it is not enough to ease the ache that settles in the pit of her, a glowing ember against bare flesh.

And she knows sleep will escape her again this night.


	4. Unholy Communion

Disclaimer: We have steadily traveled into NC-17 land. You've been warned

* * *

She taunts him with the things he despises; the inane apparel of the affluent that she wears as a socialite of Gotham, an exorbitant display of prosperity that sickens him on principal, and in practicality is useless in the hot winds of the desert, or the bitter chill of the mountains.

However, as her skirt falls to the floor and her silken shirt slips down her thin shoulders, it becomes harder for Bane to hate the trappings of wealth, for those costly raiment serve their purpose- they shield her true beauty from those who would not deserve to see her. She strips off the layers of Miranda Tate; the cashmere scarf, the silken shirt, the heels worth a small fortune, ridding herself of the costly garments that shield the true woman she is from the public's eye. She sheds them like dead skin, reborn into the most beautiful and deadly viper he has ever beheld, for she is truly fearsome in her power. She is small, so easy to overlook and underestimate, and yet more deadly than all of Bane's strength. In her bared skin, as Talia, she is an asp, always coiled and waiting to strike, the fire in her eyes matched only by her wrath. It is a truly terrifying revelation.

And Bane is enraptured.

She plays with him as a child pokes hot coals, hoping for a spark, a flash of heat. She licks at his heels, and he is quick to move, dancing to her pace as he avoids her burn. At times, her temper cools, but it is all too quick to smolder, destroying everything in its path. And for all of his might, Bane has never tried to temper the flames. For he knows he is no master of the fire, only a steady worshipper at the inferno.

And for this, she rewards him.

He, the most devout at the temple of her veneration, is also the most wealthy. Not in the terms of Gotham, for those things mean nothing to creatures of the Pit; no, in terms of her attention, her trust. Bane is who she schemes with, plots with, and often he is sent in her stead to fulfill duties for her. He is reverent in his position, knowing the faith she has in him.

His Goddess.

So he does not take it lightly when she names him the Demonhead in her stead, giving him the mantle of the League of Shadows. He is indoctrinated, of course, and knows the ways and dogmas of the group, but he did not live and breathe them as long as she did-he is not the true heir. She is willingly giving up a piece of her power to him, so he may better serve the Liberation. There is a balance of power between them, and she has tipped it in his favor.

Bane seeks to rectify this.

She comes before him, as she had done many times before, seeking the familiar comfort of his body and the release of their shared passion, and he takes the lead, towering over her as she lays naked across her bed.

He will return her to power.

She is his queen, and her pleasure is all Bane has ever strived for. Her satisfaction was always forefront in their coupling. He touches her reverently, trailing his rough hands up her thighs to her ribs, sliding his thumbs underneath the soft swell of her breasts, her nipples rosy and hardened. She is not patient, though, and while she accepts his devotion, she has never been a compassionate deity. She drives her nails into his shoulder; a stinging reminder to not lose focus.

It is precisely that which makes up his mind.

He hovers over her, her legs wrapped around his waist as he pulls away, tugging at the mechanism masking his face. He loosens the screws, pulling the straps from his face, and he can see her eyes widen ever so slightly before the monstrosity is dangling from his fingers, and his ruined mouth is exposed to her and her alone.

The pain is worse than he imagined, worse than he ever remembered.

She stares, though, stroking his marred face with ever so soft touches, and he forces himself to grip the blankets, fists clenching and teeth gritting through the torment. He will endure it, for her.

For she has given him all.

His muscles ache and scream in protest to his movements, but his plan has not yet come to fruition, and he would see it filled out. He would see her scream. He flips them, so she is on top of him, straddling his broad chest as he tries not to gasp and groan, biting into the skin of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. But his shaking hands grasp her hips, pulling her closer until she realizes what he means to do, and she slides forward to him, her eyes aglow with the promise of this new pleasure.

The first taste of her is the purest mix of agony and bliss he has ever known, and Bane knows it is the closest he will ever come to heaven. His tongue is weak from disuse, and his ruined lips make it near impossible to suckle her as he should, but as his large hands grasp her hips and he inhales the heady scent of her desire, she mewls, enrapt in pleasure, and it is his undoing. The stabbing pain that has blinded him persists, but it is no longer his focus as he drives his tongue into her, over and over, spreading her further and circling her clit. She responds by spreading her thighs wider to sink down onto him, and he knows if his head was not shorn she would have his locks in a vice grip, for even now she tries to drive him closer, pressing his head to her as though he could not feel the weight of her need. He is already addicted to her, though, the silken taste of her folds against his tongue, and the heat of her burning-

The pain, oh god, the fucking pain.

She does not know, though, and he will not tell her, the way each of his eyelashes feel as though it could be made of acid, for the weight it bears on his eyes is enough to make him consider clawing them from his face, for surely the pain of being blind is still nothing compared to this. It is fire, searing behind each layer of his skin, and he knows now this is the true price of his devotion; his penance. But he has started upon this rite of communion, and he must partake of each sacrament she bestows upon him.

_ Take; eat; this is my body which is given for you_

He is determined; he will not stop, he will not disappoint her. He swirls his tongue against her as she grinds against his face, and he can no longer tell if it is her sweet nectar that runs down his cheeks, or the salty flow of his tears, as he grips her hips tighter, bruising. She shudders, though, and he must keep going, he cannot stop. _Talia..._he would moan if he could feel his lips, so set upon their task and the pain that has overtaken them, it burns through his flesh even as he forces his tongue to thrust back into her continuously, forgetting to care as she thrashes, his name a chant on her lips and he still he does not stop his furious pace, for the pain has driven him past the point of rational thought, he can now only repeat the motions and rely upon muscle memory until her thighs clench around his head so hard he is sure that she will kill him, and then the taste of her floods his mouth.

_ Take this, and drink from it_

He drinks her in until he is sure he can take no more, for his throat is closing and he can no longer move his muscles, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Perhaps he is dying, he thinks, and for once he cannot bring himself to care. He knew in the Pit that the small child that stared at him with curious eyes through the cell bars would be his undoing. To have even seen the sun was a tribute to her fidelity. It would be a more pleasurable death than he ever envisioned, truly, the weight of her pressing down on him as he tastes her on his tongue.

_ Her will be done_

But it is not Talia's wish that he dies, for she slides off from him, grabbing his mask and pressing it to his face, the cool gas shooting into his lungs, and she gathers his head in her lap, the large man trembling and convulsing as he draws deep gasps from his mask, the soothing analgesic a balm to the fire of his nerves. But as intense as the pain is, he does not regret this night, for she is happily sated, leaning against the headboard of the bed as she strokes his head tenderly, his body curled around her lap as he holds the mask to his face.

_For thine is the kingdom_

It is easy to see, when he is weakened like this, who is truly the strong one, the protector between them both. She is his castle, his refuge when he is so destroyed, and when he is strong again he will be her bastion of strength.

The League, the Pit, Gotham...all of it is hers. Her influence has grown to rival even her father's, and it is truly a empire to behold. But none of this has ever mattered to Bane. The numbers of the League hold no weight with him, because he cares not for anyone else. She is his little one. She is his home.

_and the power  
_

She knows, now, the power she has over him, the power he has willingly given to her. She has known of his loyalty, but never had he ventured to prove himself in such indelible terms. It is a heady knowledge, and it justifies her actions, giving her a rush of pride. The more he proved himself, the more power she would bestow upon him. Any man so devoted that he would subject himself to such pain at her expense, for her pleasure, was truly worthy of her titles.

_and the glory  
_

For that, he would be the face of the Liberation, the head of the League; he will even become the child who rose from the Pit. To him will go the glory, so she might slip quietly between the ribs of the man she most despises.

_for ever and ever_

It will not be long now before it is all over, she surmises. Gotham will burn. The fire will rise. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

_Amen_


	5. Creatures of Pain

They are creatures of pain, born in the depths of hell themselves. Their blood sings for war, for violence and carnage, of darkness and of the Pit they were bred from. So when it comes to pleasure, they are lost, fumbling and unsure; too used to wrenching the life from a man's neck instead of caressing sweat-soaked skin.

But Talia has always been a fast learner.

It is not Bane's first time, but it has been years—so many years, that this feels new, different, and it is with _Talia_, his Talia, that he is more nervous than she. He worries for his strength, and how if he merely slips for a second he could crush her, bruise and break her. He is a bastion of self-denial, but this is _Talia_, and he knows he cannot resist her for a second.

He measures his self-control in the number of garments she has left on, and when she finally strips bare before him, he cannot resist from going to her, always bending to her will. But while she is eager to have him, she is new to this dance as well, and they fumble; his hands searching, learning the ways to make her breath hitch while she lets her small hand encompass him, and it is almost too much to bear for a man so accustomed to pain, this blinding pleasure that shoots through his spine, that his muscles coil and his breath rasps through his mask, arching into her touch and redoubling his efforts to find the ways to make her come undone.

When he finds purchase within her, his thick fingers parting wet flesh and stroking, delving deeper until she is quivering under him, it is a revelation of sense and sensation. For every whimper she makes, it is his liberation, the arcane knowledge that he is not fully handicapped; he can still pleasure and please where his mouth cannot.

He knows this will be a new addiction, a new part of him that she owns now for eternity. And he cannot bring himself to care, as she is panting for him, _**his **_name on her lips as she grinds into his hand, her own hand constricting around his throbbing member and he _rasps, _barely keeping in the shout of her name that teases at the back of his throat.

She arches herself to him, her every curve of sweet flesh imprinted against him, and he stills for a moment, lost in the feeling of her perfect form pressing so intimately against his own. But she moves, rocking her body gently against his, and his hard, painfully hard cock _throbs _at the sensation, her body sweet friction against his needy member.

She was perfect, and she would be his.

He traces with his hands what he cannot with his lips, the calloused pads of his fingers running from her moist lips to her neck to the swell of her breasts, teasingly across the peak of her nipples, trailing over and over the valleys and peaks of her skin, learning her topography.

Talia bites at his skin, suckling where he cannot, leaving marks on his flesh that he will be proud to wear. Her nails bore into his shoulder blade the deeper his fingers dive into her, the steady beat he has created driving to a maddening pace as she commands, with desperation and want, his name on her lips a frenzied chant that is so sweet, so maddening to him.

And he is shuddering, because he cannot bear much more of her sweet torment, her nimble fingers stroking faster, pleasing him in a way his own hand never could. There is pressure, and there is anticipation, a build, a climb for that final cliff.

But they do not dive yet.

Shuddering, he pulls her arms to encircle his shoulders, and there is a hesitation, a quiet nervousness that he would not share with anyone else.

They would not be able to appreciate it.

It is a moment of trust, of truest understanding that she meets his eyes, her hand coming to stroke the tubes of his mask, running her thumb along the edge of the strap under his eye, barely grazing sensitive skin before he can take no more of this sweet torture.

She can feel the heat in his gaze as he traps her with his stare, his breath rasping through the mask as he sheaths himself into her finally, and god-

it startles both of them, the rightness of it, the feeling of fulfillment and completeness. The tentative pace that had started, was forgotten with the alacrity of their need, and it is with both pain and pleasure that Talia can feel him thrust, his powerful hips bruising in their mass, and yet it is just what she wants; for him to not hold back. To feel his need, his desire, and not his restraint.

And Bane could not manage it, anyways. He needs to hear her scream for him just as badly as she wants to hear him growl her name, rough and low, just as she had always imagined.

She claws up his side, his breath a rough hiss where hers is a moan, her throat exposed as her head tilts back, her mouth open as she gasps with each movement. Bane curses the damned mask, for there is nothing more tempting than the pale expanse of her neck, her creamy skin a blank canvas to the bites and bruises he would mar her with. His palms cup her breasts, thumbing the rosy buds of skin until she is shivering under him, mewling for more, for him.

Talia reaches between them, where the junction of their bodies meet, and to feel the thick member that throbs inside of her is completely enthralling. His hand reaches to hers, pulling to pin both of her hands to the side of her, their fingers entwined near her head as his muscles flex, his hips continuing in their undulation and her legs wrapped tightly around his hips, the frantic motion of their bodies becoming more and more frenzied with each passing moment.

What had started as an ache turned now to a full-body fever, the waves of pleasure crashing and cresting, violent in their pitches.

And then they are tumbling in the surf, both lost to the motion of the waves, and the friction of their bodies, Talia crying out as Bane holds her, hissing with his own release as her eyes open in wide-mouthed exultation, gasping and shaking, Bane's name a praise on her lips as sweet as he has ever heard.

It is perfect bliss, and he revels in it, sinking in the pleasure that she has given him.

She, too, gazes back at him, amazed at what bliss could be drawn from bodies as scarred as theirs. Forged into weapons, and yet still able to create ecstasy from their juncture.

It was a heady knowledge; they were not so damaged, so maimed that they cannot enjoy this carnal joy.

And when Talia finally shudders, the gravity of what they have just done heavy on her shoulders, Bane holds her close, her fingers entwined with his as she lets her mind blank to the slow hiss of Bane's mask, her head in the crook of his neck.

They are not perfect, but they are complete.


	6. Deshi Basara

When he sees her reach the final ledge, the final jump to freedom, he knows fear that is so strong it chokes him. He cannot even cry out for her, to chant for her as no one else will, the mob suffocating and dragging him down even as he fights to stay afloat, striking out at anyone in his range of motion. He can barely whisper goodbye before she has jumped and oh god is she flying or falling please fly fly talia deshi deshi basara basa and then the crowd has overtaken him, strangling him and pulling at his clothes, and he cannot see. He tries to push to the top, fighting for a last gasp of air like a drowning man. He catches only a glimpse, but he can see that she has made it, god, she had done it! And then he is dragged under by the current of bodies, fighting until he crashes on the rock bottom, his vision blurring until unconsciousness overtakes him.

When he wakes up, there is pain; more pain than he has felt in years. It is not the gnaw of hunger or the ache of malnourishment, it is searing and debilitating and he knows something is wrong. He is at the bottom of the Pit where the mob left him, likely hoping that he would not wake up. But wake he did, and he lay there trying to move all of his limbs. The searing pain seemed to travel from his leg, and he did his best not to jar it, slowly pressing up into a sitting position, inhaling sharply as the movement seemed to reopen many of his wounds. The leg would not do, not here in the Pit, but there were ways around that. The fact that he could sit up and breathe without vomiting blood promised a quicker recuperation, but the pain in his leg would be a much longer recovery, as any break in the bone would take weeks-even months-to heal.

But he would not ponder over his ailments. He was alive, where he had expected to die.

He was alive, and Talia was free.

His heart burned at the sudden memory, and the overwhelming pride that ebbed in his chest. His little one, flying instead of falling, finally reaching the sun and sky and light where she belonged.

* * *

Two weeks later and Bane was miserable. He was stuck in his cell as his leg healed, the bone broken from what the doctor had told him. The roar he had let out when the doctor set his leg again was enough to echo off the cave walls, frightening away the birds that perched atop the Pit's edge, and alerting every prisoner to his pain. Not that it mattered. While he was injured, he was not helpless, and every vulture that circled past his cell door was greeted with a cold stare, one that promised retribution if they made any moves.

He had forgotten what true boredom was; what his life had been like without Talia. And it was nigh unbearable.

So much of his time was spent entertaining her, training her, teaching her, that he hadn't had a chance to be bored. It was a blessing in the Pit, but now it was a curse. They had such a routine, that now that she was gone Bane had no idea how to amuse himself anymore.

But he could not begrudge her for leaving. It was his wish all along that she would escape this prison; not hers. While she talked of seeing the outside, it was with a childish wonder, as if she did not truly believe all the stories he would tell her about the world. She did not long for the burn of the sun and the sight of mountains, for she had never known it, and she had grown much too accustomed to their life in the Pit.

He could see, in the quiet moments when she would rest her small head against his chest in the shadows, that she was truly content with their diminutive existence.

The thought scared him.

He wanted her to fight to be free; to claw her way from this Hell and fly to her father, where she could live like a normal child. While his own heart felt the throb of contentment as she lay against him, he knew he would have to impress in her the importance of escaping. There was no life for her here; no life with him.

This is the way it was meant to be; She blossoming in Heaven, and He rotting in Hell.

* * *

When he thought of her, he tried to think of how happy she was with her father. He tried not to think about how difficult and arduous her journey to him would be, or if she even knew how to find him. Those thoughts would certainly drive him mad. Instead, he thought of the luxuries she would be able to enjoy, the rich foods she would be able eat, the soft bed she slept on instead of the hard springs of their beaten cot; the clothes made of fine wool and silk instead of scratchy rags. Where she had been his Princess of the Pit, now she would be a true Princess, living in a way most men could only dream of.

He had no idea who her father was, or if he had any influence or means, but surely Talia deserved to be a Princess in the outside world, where here she had been forced to become a shadow. No; now she was celebrated, her beauty and wit would be loved by all.

And she would forget about him.

It was not something he exactly looked forward to, but he had accepted the reality once the first month without his little one had passed.

She was so young while in the Pit, and with time, and a welcoming family, her memories of this godforsaken place would fade. He would be a distant memory, and perhaps after twenty years all she would remember of him was his warmth, or the way he pushed her so urgently to the wall, afraid for her life.

He would remember everything.

He was determined not to lose a single memory of her, for they were some of the only truly happy memories he had in his life. The way her small body clung to him after a nightmare, the prickle of her scalp against his cheek as her roughly shaven head tickled him; the light in her eyes when he would tell her stories of the outside world, the way she had become his shadow.

It hurt just to think about it.

But the pain was the only way he could remember that it was all real, and he embraced it, letting it engulf his hollow heart.

* * *

It took almost four months for his leg to fully heal, and for the Pit doctor to clear Bane to walk around freely.

It was an infuriating process, almost having to relearn how to walk. His muscles had atrophied slightly as he hadn't been able to continue his daily regimen of exercise. In truth, walking around the upper level of the Pit, or limping as was his case, now took nearly all of his strength, and by the time he made it back to his cell, he was exhausted, and disgusted with himself. Injury was no excuse to become so weak, and while it had taken quite a while to fully heal, there was no reason to let his weakness fester.

There was no discipline in fragility, and a lack of discipline quickly bred apathy. And nothing killed in the Pit quicker than apathy.

Well, that, and hope.

For four months, all Bane could do was watch the climbers with a desperate anticipation, longing for vindication and receiving only disappointment. The chant had become so engrained in his mind that he was sure he could feel the reverberation in his bones when the ancient words once again crept from the bottom of the pit, their cries increasing in frenzy the higher each climber rose.

Except for when Talia rose, and somehow Bane thinks that made a difference.

She had no chorus of support; only his rough hands to toss her up to the nearest ledge. She had no rope; no safety net to catch her if she should fall. She jumped on blind faith and desperation, a desire to live that had surprised him, and he knew it would not be easily copied, if ever. She was the child that rose from the Pit, and he doubted there could be another.

She was legend, where all the rest of them were destined to fail.

* * *

Once six months had passed, and Bane was once again back to his full health, he paced the length of the Pit, staring up at the sky, at the crags and crevices of the wall that Talia had scaled. It was a need that burned so hot and thick at his throat that he had to choke it down each day, swallowing the constant hope that threatened to destroy him. He was not foolish; he knew the folly of trying to follow Talia's footsteps. He was not made to soar as she was. But logic could not drown out hope, no matter how foolish.

He plotted, mapping each contour of the wall, learning its surface as he might, in another life, learn the surface of a lover's skin.

He would let the wall be enough of a companion for him, and if it were to free him from the steady confines of the Pit, then he might know true love, even, for it.

He had been disappointed too many times before. Maybe placing his trust in a wall was a bit naive, but it was the only thing that held his salvation.

* * *

Two more weeks of staring at the wall and Bane had had enough. He had watched every fool in the Pit try their luck once, even twice, and yet never him. His mind fought a bitter battle, warring logic against his overwhelming desire to be reunited with his Talia again. To protect her. To be her warrior throughout her life. Even if it was only to be assured of her safety, Bane longed to walk on the surface land. If she was happy, loved-he could leave her be, he thought. It would tear at him and rip his soul asunder, but he would leave her if he knew that her life would be better off without him.

When he left to climb, on a morning when the sun's rays had barely broken the skyline, he prayed.

He prayed to her, to his Talia, that he would be free of the Hell she had survived.

And if he fell, he prayed that he would die quickly. No more suffering, no more wallowing in this Pit with a shadow of a life. Let him fly, or let him burn. Stifling the hope that threatened to overwhelm, he walked slowly to the fateful ledge, his hands brushing lightly against the metal bars of the cells, as his steps took him all too quickly to the precipice.

The other denizens of the prison were only just waking up, so there was no one to offer him the rope to wrap around his waist; no one to start the fateful cry.

He would climb as she did; without the rope, without a crutch to restrain him, or save him from the harsh reunion with the ground.

His fingers brush the wall; a caress, and then he climbs. The moment both his feet have left the ground, Bane knows that this is where he belongs. He _needs _to climb; it is his destiny, it is what his whole life has been leading to. Each inch he climbs is a lightness in his chest, and the pull of the sky strengthens him the higher he climbs.

He tries to focus, zoning in on each handhold, placing his feet with precision, knowing the exact paths the others have taken. He has neared the ledge where he must jump when the rock his left foot rests on shatters, swaying his body dangerously before he can swing to another crag. It is enough to make his blood rush in his ears, his heart pounding loudly enough to drown out the chants from the onlookers.

He could not fail.

Talia needed him.

It was enough motivation to fuel him on; his muscles screaming as he pushed himself onto that final ledge, the highest anyone had reached, save his little one.

It was time.

He had to jump. To fly.

There was only time to think, just a fleeting thought, of her smile, before he jumped. His blood roared, his muscles straining, his body taught and extended, his fingers reaching, reaching-for a brush of stone, enough to drive his nails into the rough surface, and then nothing.

He fell.

There wasn't time for terror, or regret; just enough for a roar, a scream for his Talia. But he was not the one who rose, the one who flew.

Bane fell, and the chanting died the instant he hit the ground, no rope at his waist to slow his speed.

Few survived the rope's snap, and no one had ever survived an unhindered fall.

He had signed his own death sentence.

* * *

There is agony, anguish, torture he has never known. He is sure that he has died, and the fires of Hell lick at his marred flesh, for there to be such pain.

His only thoughts are that he hopes he never sees Talia here.

And that if he can see anyone, it would be Talia's grandfather.

* * *

He wakes gasping, panting, and on the verge of screaming. It is so much worse than he thought; he cannot handle this.

He begs for death in his mother tongue, his blunt nails digging and scratching scars into his palms as the waves of pain become tidal waves, crashing from his spine to his skull, the blind searing behind his eyes surely not of this world. There is noise, pressure, and from what he can tell there is someone else there, trying to talk to him. However, he can barely make out a word they say, as the pain has become white noise, blocking out all other sensations. He feels the outside force press something into his arm, and then all is black.

* * *

When he awakes again, it is in a haze, a dull fog that clouds his mind of truly processing what is happening. He can crack his eyes open, which seems to be an improvement from the last time he woke. But he feels confined, almost swaddled in what he is sure is bandages, and the fog presses heavier on his mind, until the room fades to black.

* * *

He is writhing again, on the floor or perhaps on a cot, and he can hear footsteps coming closer. He cracks his eyes open as much as he can stand it, thankful that it is nighttime and the sun is not glaring down into his eyes. From what he can make out, it is the Pit doctor that waits on him, readying another syringe of god knows what. Bane does not care. If it will decrease the agony, he would suffer any addiction, accept any consequence.

* * *

It is days, weeks, before he thinks of Talia again. His existence has been pure agony, and he has not been able to spend a spare thought for anything besides the pain, and the medicine the doctor provides him to numb his senses.

He had thought, that after a week or two, his body would begin to mend and heal. It has not.

If anything, it has gotten worse, for his many wounds have led to an unpreventable infection. The fever leaves him delirious, and he wakes up at odd hours of the day crying out for her, for his Talia, no longer shielding the desperation from his voice, for he needs her, now more than ever, to soothe him and to bring him some relief.

He pleads over and over with the Doctor for death.

But the senile old man staunchly refuses to kill him, quoting some blasted oath and asking him, in a gentle tone, what he would do if Talia returned, only to find him dead.

He never wants to know the answer to that question, because Bane never wants her to return. Let her forget her life here, this godforsaken hellhole. Let her be happy in her new life. Let her not cast her thoughts to a cripple of a man, a mere shadow of what he used to be.

He was ashamed, and if he had the choice, he would not let Talia see him now; not like this.

Let her memories of him be untainted.

* * *

He lives in an awful twilight world, made of pain and a haze of sedatives. In the few short periods that he is lucid, he deduces that he is not actually in Hell, but still in the Pit. But he has Fallen, and his injuries are so numerous that the Doctor is not sure if he will ever walk again.

Hell, he's not sure if he even wants to at this point, because he's sure that all it will be is more pain. Pain to learn to walk, pain to fix his back, pain in every step. Better to accept his fate as a cripple now, than to harbor foolish dreams of regaining what had once been his.

She was not coming back, and neither was his strength.

After a month goes by, the Doctor tries to wean him off of the pain medicine. It does not go well. Bane is in too much pain to think straight, and while the Doctor tried to be conservative with the drugs, and not create an addiction, Bane is already too far gone.

His pain is too great, and now that he has had the taste of something that will numb his senses, he cannot fathom surviving without it.

It is three months before he can grunt out simple words, requests. His jaw had been shattered, his nose broken along with a cheekbone, so speaking comes only in necessity. The doctor tries to feed him false promises about a full recovery, but Bane can see the lie in his eyes even as he speaks.

He has accepted that he is destined to be this monster, this deformation.

All because he dared to hope.

* * *

When the doctor attempts to operate on his back, stitching him together and trying to make sense of the fragments of his spine, Bane thrashes and fights until he his heavily sedated, his limbs strapped to the frame of the cot to keep him from moving.

It is almost worse than waking up after the fall, with barely any anesthesia and only enough morphine to knock him out for the first two hours.

Later, he learns that there is only so much a rudimentary field doctor can fix with a scalpel and some old rags; spines cannot bend and break only to be forged anew.

* * *

It is a year and a half before he can attempt to move, crawling at first and then hobbling about the Pit on a staff the Doctor has fashioned him. He is considered too much of a weakling to be bothered with by the others in the Pit, and they mostly leave him be as he makes his slow journey around the top ring of the prison, working to strengthen his leg muscles which have atrophied so much during his months of bed rest. While he knows his efforts are fruitless, it keeps his mind occupied for the amount of time it takes him to complete a circle around the jail, and keeps him more focused on taking a step, and the pain, then wondering about Talia, or why he was not strong enough, desperate enough to escape the Pit. What she had that he didn't. He is not jealous, but he cannot rationalize why she in all her rags and malnourishment was able to make a jump that his large mass of muscle could not manage.

He stares up at the sun on the days when he is too weak or too tired to take his walk around the Pit, and while he sits he dreams of the life Talia has now; the servants and riches she knows, the friends she has, and the splendor she has been able to grow into. Undoubtedly, with proper food and hygiene, she would grow to be a stunning beauty. Bane had done what he could with what little food and goods they were able to procure, but it was nothing compared to what one with means would be able to provide her; to give her the childhood she was never afforded.

It almost makes the pain in his spine worth it.

* * *

The Doctor operates on his spine again, trying again to fix what has been broken, and it is even worse. The scar tissue that has formed down the length of his spine makes it even more difficult to splay him open, and they are low on medication in the Pit, so he is forced to endure with only the mildest of painkillers, his roars and screams of agony echoing through the Pit all throughout the day until he mercifully passes out from the pain, cursing the blasted Doctor and the ropes that bound him to the bed, promising him a lengthy death whenever he woke from his pain-induced slumber.

The pain is worse when he wakes, and Bane is reduced to begging the doctor for more drugs, if only to stifle the pain. It is not the waves of pain he has grown accustomed to; no, it is constant and ever present, not letting him forget for even a second the fire in his spine, the dislocated bone and flayed flesh weeping and bleeding from their wounds. By the next day he has bent most of the metal frame of his cot, his hands searching for something to grip onto to try and level the pain.

It does not work, but it gives him something to do with his hands.

* * *

After that, the doctor does not try to operate on him anymore. He is barely able to sit up from the pain, and he knows the thought of trying to walk around like he used to is likely lost. He despises the doctor, and his mangled remains of a spine, but he is indebted to him; not able to kill the man, for then he would have no supplier for the pain killing medicine he had become addicted to.

He no longer cared if he was completely enslaved to the medicine, as long as he had enough and it could stave off the pain.

Miserably, he thought about what Talia would think if she could see him now, laid low by hope, nothing more than a shadow of his former strength and self.

She might not even recognize him, and the thought was enough to chill his bones.

He figures that after a few days, a few weeks, the dependence on morphine, on pain killers, on anything will subside, and eventually he will wean himself off of the crutch he has created. But as the weeks drag on, his need for them only grows, as he becomes accustomed to them, and his body adapts to the medicine, causing him to need higher and higher doses of the medicine to try and curb his pain.

Death was looking better and better each day, and he would plead with the other inmates to kill him as if he didn't have a single shred of dignity left.

Day after day, when the doctor comes to visit him, he pleads for death; for an empty syringe in his arm, taking away his pain in one swift plunge. Every day the doctor reminds him of the child, of the girl he helped raise, of how she depended on him, and how she would one day return, coming to save him from the awful life of the Pit.

He chuckled mirthlessly at the sentiment. "And what would she do with me, then? I cannot even move on my own. She is much better off without me. Let her mourn my death instead of caring for a vegetable."

Months pass like this, and the winter is harsher than any of them had expected. The cold rattles Bane's bones, and as each cough echoes through his chest, his ribs ache, the pain in his back growing worse.

In the middle of the winter, he develops pneumonia.

There is hardly anything the doctor can do for him anymore, as all of his supplies are drawn thin with the high number of sick inmates in the colder months. There is barely any morphine, and blood now spews from Bane's lips whenever he coughs.

He knows this is his death sentence; this will finally be what kills him, and for once, he welcomes it.

But he does not die when he expects to, and lasts throughout the winter, unlike many of the prisoners. It is a miserable existence, one he thoroughly detests, and everyday he hopes he will one day regain the strength to walk about the outer rim of the Pit, if only to throw himself over the edge and finally break his neck, ending his misery for good.

His cough still persisted, and he took to wearing a cloth wrapped around his face, to absorb the blood that he would spew from his weakened lungs.

In the Spring, the doctor moved him to the bottom of the Pit, where he could sit and see the sky, see the sun; obviously hoping that the sunlight would help him heal.

But in truth, all it did was remind Bane of his failure. He could see exactly where he fell, could see the ledge that he could not reach, and the lip of the Pit that he would never touch.

It is in the spring that he gives up hope entirely.

He has accepted death, greeted it as an old friend as he runs out of morphine to dull his pain, his spine aflame anew. Each day, he is greeted with a new symptom of withdrawal; the shaking, the hallucinations, the pain. He coughs up blood until he can no longer speak, each breath is a rattling shake of his ribs that is laced with pain.

The fight has left his eyes, and the other prisoners have noticed. They leave him be, sitting alone in the bottom of the Pit, his eyes glazed as he looks out at nothing, seeing nothing.

He was no longer the Bane of the Pit. He simply was, just existed, and barely at that.

He prays for the last time, and he hopes for death. He has not prayed since Talia flew, and now he calls upon some lost god to take pity on him, to end his misery and suffering. He has known only pain all of his life; surely he deserved some respite for suffering for so long.

Surely, he deserves to die.

* * *

When the men rain down into the Pit, dripping down the sides and flooding the bottom floor, he knows it is a hallucination. There is shouting, and gunshots, and maybe even fire, but he cannot bring himself to move his head to look at the commotion; can no longer make the effort to move.

He is in a stasis, letting his body slowly deteriorate, letting the ascetiscm of immobilization slowly kill him. It is the only option that is left to him.

When a figure walks slowly into his view, however, he is aware that it is likely more than his imagination conjuring another vividly lifelike hallucination. A man is pulling off his mask, talking to him, asking him questions he cannot make out and would not be able to answer even if he wanted to.

And then the man calls another over, and a more graceful form moves towards him, pulling down their mask to reveal a miracle.

It is his Talia.

But he cannot move or speak, and must rely solely on her to recognize him, which is the most frustrating prospect he can imagine. How can she know him, if he is so changed? He is nothing like his former self, how would she ever be able to recognize him?

But she nears, and he finds himself trying to move for once; intentionally provoking his pain if only to touch her again, to know that she is real; that she is alive.

She nears, kneeling next to the man that first approached him, and for one terrifying moment, he sees the blank look in her eyes, the lack of recognition.

But her eyes light up in the next second, raising her hand hesitantly to touch briefly at the side of his face, and he can see how she has matured when she does not mention his wounds, only looking at him with bright eyes and whispering, "Bane.."

The other men, the ones that are real and not hallucinations, come forward at the motion of the first man, situating Bane on a stretcher and harnessing him to ropes, where he begins his journey up the side of the Pit.

He is terrified.

If it were not for Talia at his side, constantly checking him to make sure he is still in stable condition, he would insist that they do not try to lift him up the side of the wall.

He has attempted it once, and failed. He does not need a reminder of that, does not want to be burdened with the hope and anticipation of one who thinks he will escape.

His terror mounts the higher he is hoisted and tries to motion for them to stop, tries to talk when Talia swings over to his stretcher, laying her hand on his shoulder to still him.

It was enough to stop him from moving, and he met her eyes, placing his trust in her as the stretcher was lifted higher and higher, until finally he was hoisted over the edge of the Pit.

And then he was free.

He was outside, in the daylight, in the Sun.

And he was with Her.

He is placed gently on the ground as truck are assembled, and she kneels by him, wrapping her hand around his as he takes in the feel of the breeze against his skin, the sun's rays warming him, the fresh air sweet and light in his lungs.

He squeezes her hand, reveling in the outside, knowing true peace in that moment.

He had been wrong to accept death so easily in the Pit.

Now, now he could truly die without a single regret.

* * *

Merry Christmas everyone!


	7. Surroundings and Self-Control

The mountains were nothing like the Pit, and to Bane they would never feel like home. The cold penetrated through the wooden walls, sliced through layers of jackets, and was so biting eyes would water. He wondered how Talia put up with it. But she was adaptable, and forever in the shadow of her father, where fires were always stoked and rooms warmed for the great Ra's Al Ghul, Demonhead.

It was on nights like this that he longed for the Pit, if only for the warmth, and the way his little one would sleep at his side, leeching heat from him as he would curl his arm protectively around her. Now it seemed he had followed her to the other side of Hell, for if the Pit was fire and brimstone then the League was surely ice and frostbite, just as quick to kill a man as the flames.

He hated the cold. He hated the way his mask was like ice against his skin, the way his eyelashes collected tiny crystals of frost when he had been outside for too long. He did not regret, however, the decision to come here. To be by Talia's side, he would suffer any hell imaginable-he would suffer the Pit again for her, if only she requested it. And there was a certain satisfaction in watching Talia learn, to grow and become a warrior. If she prospered, it was because of his protection when she was but a child; if she flourished, then it was to his credit.

So it was without much trepidation that he sent her off to train with her father outside of the fortress. While the snow was coming down in lazy spirals, it was hardly storming, and the ground had not yet iced over. There was only a distant fear for his little one, and what may transpire, as he trusted in her abilities, and the self-preservation of her father. For Ra's would not seek to harm the one family member he had left.

This did not stop Bane from being restless.

When the sun set, he began to pace. The snow had not increased in speed, which was a small favor, but every second that went by was another shadow the crept across the snow, the sun dipping down past the horizon, and soon it was enough to motivate him to leave his room, venturing into the main atrium of the fortress, where members of the League passed him by and conversed freely. When one of the Demonhead's private guards walked past, Bane grabbed the man, trying to control the way his fingers ached for a fight, for action. "Where are they?" He growled, the mask amplifying the effect. The guard's eyes widened minutely, the only sign betraying his fear of the much larger man, a testament to the training he had undergone.

"They still have not returned from their training," the guard managed through gritted teeth, pulling away from Bane as the larger man released his grip on him slowly. Bane snarled, the rasp of his mask making the sound come out more primal than human. As the guard hurried away, and Bane was left to stew in his rage.

They should have been back by now.

Bane returned to his room, the tension building in his muscles and fury coursing through his veins. He grabbed his thick fur coat, pushing his arms the heavy sleeves roughly, pulling the thick collar tightly around his neck.

Ra's would pay for this. If Talia was injured, he would pay.

The sun was a low sliver on the horizon, barely lighting the path through the mountain, as Bane's heavy steps crunched through the layers of snow, his pace brisk as he wound his way down the mountainside. It was about a twenty minute hike to where he assumed Talia and her father had been training, and by the time he neared the lake, the sun was but a few glowing embers on the skyline, the shadows heavy on the snow. All the while his blood boiled, and the worry that was once a minor tug was now an insistent throb in his chest.

It was at the edge of the frozen lake that he truly began to panic.

He could only see one dark figure at the edge of the ice, instead of the two that should have been there.

He didn't realize that he was running until the snow had coated the tubing of his mask, the wind whipping against the exposed skin of his face. The last embers of twilight had died, and the shadows enveloped, consuming the lake and the icy mountains that surrounded it.

There should be two figures.

He couldn't decide which was worse-the thought that Ra's was standing there, alone, Talia missing in the darkness; or Talia huddled in the dark, abandoned by her father.

He was but a stone's throw away when he realized it was the latter.

She was a small, trembling form on the wide stretch of white, her dark hair nearly covered with the blowing snow as her hands moved slowly to warm her arms. Bane threw himself at her knees, enveloping her quickly in the warmth of his coat and the expanse of his embrace.

She looked up to him as though he were the sun, finally breaching the horizon after a monsoon.

He looked away. He was no such man.

She clung to him with every ounce of strength she had left, the dampness of her clothing seeping through the layers he wore, and he realized why her skin was so pale, why her lips were drained of color and threatening to turn blue.

This must have been the 'lesson' Ra's sought to teach her; one of minding her surroundings, but mostly of consequences. It was one Bane refused to let her learn alone.

He picked her up as though she were porcelain, bundling her to his chest and cradling her like he did when she was but a small child. He was a pillar of strength as he carried her small form back to the fortress, the wind picking up in strength and the snow coming down in drifts. It coated Bane's shoulders, finds the cracks between his mask and flesh and burned an icy trail along his skin, quickening his steps, for if he was uncomfortable than she was surely in agony. He ignored the guards at the entrance and the uncertain glances they gave him, heading straight for the bathhouses that he knew would be mostly deserted at such a late hour. It was a small grace that there was no one there when he kicked open the heavy wooden door, for he did not want to waste time frightening away more recruits.

He did not waste time with clothing, easing them both into the edge of the large communal bath until the water was up to his chest, holding Talia so only her head was exposed. She still did not respond, though, clutching at his chest, her cold fingers nestled into the warm layers of his tunic.

He was reminded of the first time he held her, when she was just born, and she had been handed to him by the senile old doctor, his smaller frame and youthful appearance still dwarfing the tiny babe. He had washed her then, too, with what little water they had, knowing that the tiny bundle he held was more precious than any treasure he had ever known.

But at least then, she responded to his touch. Now she was all but unresponsive. Struggling out of his jacket, he threw the dead weight to the edge of the bath. His fingers laced through her hair, cupping warm water and pouring it onto her forehead, the fear that resided in the pit of his stomach rearing its ugly head.

What if she did not respond.

What if Ra's had killed her.

What if he had only left earlier; maybe he would have been there in time to save her, to rescue her.

He rocked her body gently in the water, trying not to let the strength of his grip bruise her, fighting the urge to cry. It had been years, decades even, since he had felt such an urge. But just the idea that his precious Talia might die was enough to choke him.

He would not lose her. He could not. Not after they have survived the Pit; he would not let her meet death from the cold, when she had suffered the most blistering of heat.

There was a gasp, and her eyes fluttered open.

Bane knew the sweetest of reliefs, the purest of joys, as her hands came to clutch at his tunic, pulling him closer to try and absorb some of his heat. She rested her head against his shoulder, too exhausted and cold to want to discuss what happened with him.

It was enough that he had found her, had rescued her.

But Talia was not content.

It took a few moments before she could think clearly again, her mind too focused on the way her body shook and stomach cramped from the cold. Now that she was secure in Bane's grasp, though, she could really consider what had transpired out in the snow.

If she was the true daughter of Ra's al Ghul, she would have been more aware of her surroundings, and not fallen into the ice in the first place.

She would have been able to build her own fire, been able to warm herself. She would have had the strength to make it back to the compound on her own, like Ra's undoubtedly expected her to.

She would not have relied so heavily on her Protector to come rescue her.

Talia let her mind drift as she sank deeper into the warm water, not caring at the way her heavy winter clothes weighed her down, only on the warmth her protector exuded and the way his strong arms cradled her so gently.

* * *

Bane began to regret his decision to stay in the water with her, to let her cling to his chest as though she was still a child, a babe. She was no child; now almost sixteen as far as he knew, and stuck somewhere between a girl and a woman. He could not deny his desire to keep holding her; he would cradle her shivering body for hours if that is what it took. But his mind, the part of him that still had a conscience, screamed something about boundaries and how Ra's might kill him.

Her eyes opened suddenly, and she slowly pushed away from his grasp, letting the water support her as she stood away from him.

Thank god.

But then she was stripping the outer layers of her clothing off, and Bane was having trouble breathing, turning away quickly from her. He tried not to think about the reflection of her back in the water next to him, or the sounds of her stripping her soaking clothes from her small frame, until she bore only her chest bindings and loose-fitting pants of the League.

This was a new lesson, then, one that he still had to fully learn; a lesson in control, in resistance. As much as his insides screamed at him to grab his heavy coat and wrap her in it, effectively covering her exposed body, he knew she would not appreciate such a gesture. Sinking lower into the water, careful to not let the water touch his mask, Bane rested against the edge of the pool, listening to the ripple and swish of the water behind him as she moved around, perhaps bathing, perhaps simply stretching her sore, frozen limbs.

And then there was pressure against his back, and he could feel her pressing herself against him, wrapping her thin arms around his waist.

He bit back the panic that threatened to envelop him, trying to think of a way to politely dislodge her when he felt the curve of her chest pressing against him through his soaked tunic.

Fuck.

It was a rattling breath he drew next, struggling away from her, nearly flailing in the pool's waters to escape her. Such a small thing, and yet such a large threat she posed.

She was everything he was not allowed, not supposed to crave.

"T-Talia," he rasped, hoping she would dislodge herself from him. She hummed contently, though, and he could feel the vibrations from her chest to his back.

It felt too damn good.

"Get off of me," he said in a snarl, trying to distract her from the way his palms shook, his fingers twitching to touch her and pull her to him. She pulled away from him quickly, surprised, and drifted backwards in the water, away from him.

He had never recoiled from her touch before.

"Bane?" she asked quietly, drawing her arms around her chest. His back tensed, but he remained silent, his fists clenching in the water.

She reached out to touch his back, to ask him if he was quite well when he flinched away from her touch, and Talia pulled back, stunned.

This was not what she had been expecting; not at all.

Finally, Bane spoke. "Are you quite well?" He asked, and it seemed to Talia as if he has spoken through gritted teeth. She edged away to the end of the pool, hurt. "I'm fine now," she said quietly, turning away. Nodding in acknowledgement, Bane climbed out the pool, his clothing showering water onto the slick floor, clinging to his body in an irritating way. He grabbed his heavy wool jacket, quickly stalking out of the door to the bath house and into the frigid night.

Talia was alone.

And Bane hated her.

She curled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her and letting her hair curtain in front of her face. He had saved her, and now she had enraged him.

But she didn't even understand what she had done; she had only hugged him. He had never recoiled from her touch so much, and it was vexing that he would do so now. Nothing had changed to her, and yet, it seemed as though everything had with him.

Perhaps her weakness had disgusted him. Perhaps he was disappointed in her, just as her father had been; that was the most likely of answers. Talia hugged herself, trying to ignore the way her emotions tugged at her chest, burning at the back of her eyes.

* * *

Bane trekked back into the foyer, clothes still dripping wet. Most of the recruits had retired for the evening, so there were not too many that were there to look at him with confused expressions on their faces. Bane saw Ra's appear from his rooms on the second floor, and for a second, they shared a look.

But Bane stalked quickly off to his rooms, still trying to focus solely on the way the wet clothes cut to his bones like ice. He tried to focus on the cold, the numbness, the chill, but instead remembered the heat of the water, the softness of her skin, her small body pressed against his. It was too much, and Bane all but sprinted to the door of his chambers, throwing them open and slamming the door shut again, resting his head dejectedly against the back of the door.

She was too much for him.

He was able to control it before, but she had grown older, and bolder, and it became harder and harder to ignore her with each passing day; harder to treat her as the child he had known in the Pit.

It had been a stupid idea to take her to the baths. He had been desperate to get her warm, but blankets would have been just as effective, and surely a lot more covering.

Damn it all.

Things had changed between the two of them, whether they had wanted it to or not. Bane tried not to think about what that would mean.

* * *

Talia took her time in the bath, only pulling herself from the waters when they turned tepid, wrapping herself securely in a bundle of towels, sitting to let herself fully dry, contemplating the way things had turned out.

Bane had been there when she needed him, but no more than that. Perhaps it was selfish of her, or she was simply used to another way, but it didn't seem like enough, now that she was so used to having all of him, all of the time.

It wasn't fair, for him to leave her like that.

She _needed_ him.

But maybe he didn't see it, or maybe he didn't want her to be so needy, so desperate for his attention. And that, she could understand, because she surely was too dependent on him.

Perhaps it was time to survive without using her Protector as a crutch, to depend on him to always be there when she needed.

If he considered her such a burden, then she would do her best to remove that weight from his shoulders.

She would sleep alone tonight, for the first time in years.

* * *

When Talia did not come to his bed by midnight, Bane knew he had hurt her more deeply than she had let on. It burned at his chest, and he fought in his mind for the best course of action.

Logically, he knew it would have happened sooner or later. Talia would not always sleep at his side; eventually she would grow up and move on and sleep on her own, without nightmares.

But his heart pleaded with him to go to Talia's room and beg for her forgiveness, to let him sleep once again with her in the curve of his body and the crook of his arm.

* * *

In the end, his head won, and he remained in his room, unable to sleep at all. He waited, hoping, wishing, that she would come back to him, but when the first rays of sunlight filtered in through the small window he had, Bane accepted that she had made it through the night without him.

She no longer needed him, then, and the thought was a stab in his heart.

He would always be her Protector, but now there was less to protect. She could stand on her own.

* * *

Talia hadn't slept at all, not that she had tried. After sneaking back into the compound, her clothes still sodden, she had burrowed into her bed, hoping to forget about the way Bane had ordered her away, flinching from her touch. It haunted her, and by the time the sun had risen, her guilt was written deep in the lines of her face, etched in the circles under her eyes.

She was miserable, and had developed a delightful fever from her lesson the night before. While she wanted nothing more than to lay in her bed all day, dawn neared, and she knew not showing up for her morning lessons would be considered intolerable.

It was a terrible morning, regardless. Her father seemed more intent than usual to lecture her for hours, on strategy and different cultures, and really, it had all blended together. Usually Talia was very diligent in trying to absorb everything, but today it was a struggle to simply stay awake, her body suffering hot and cold flashes, her eyelids permanently half-closed.

It was sparring, however, that was the worst.

Usually it was her strong suit, as Talia had all but mastered the many different fighting styles, being bested only by her father and some of the more experienced teachers. Today, however, she was distracted, and as a result received quite a few more bruises than usual, the punishing blows stinging her flesh hard enough to draw welts on her pale skin.

While Talia would have usually been done with her lessons at sundown, Ra's had assigned her individual sparring, which entailed Talia attacking a punching bag until her father was satisfied.

* * *

Ra's had left an hour ago, but Talia continued to punish herself for her own perceived weakness. Try as she might, she could not forget the way Bane had pushed her away, commanding her to leave. Talia struck hard against the dense bag, hissing as she felt the skin of her knuckles rip open. She swayed, her vision blurring with tears of frustration, and she dropped to her knees, clutching her throbbing hand. Her fever still had a grip on her, and punishing herself like this was not making it any better. Using the punching bag to pull herself up, Talia reinitiated her volley of blows against the bag. She could feel the strain in her muscles, tears of frustration now spilling freely down her face as she hit harder and harder, blood rushing to her head and flowing from her fists until the buzzing in her mind took over, and Talia pitched forward, her knees buckling again as she feel to the floor.

Talia waited for the smack of the cold wood against her forearms, but instead found herself braced against a wall of flesh, strong arms wrapped around her torso and lowering her gently to the floor. While there was nothing she wanted more than to simply stay in his embrace, Talia pushed him away roughly, scrambling backwards to glare at him while scrubbing away the angry tears from her face with her palm.

It broke his heart.

He knew she was mad at him, but to see her still so furious, so emotional, from someone usually so stoic...it tore at his chest, and it felt as though some old wound within him had been ripped open anew. I had taken him _years_, many years in the Pit for her to learn to trust him, and now he felt as if he had managed to destroy that in one night. Now, he could see how she felt when he had pushed her away, with heartbreaking clarity.

Bane looked away, ashamed.

He almost did not catch the first blow, distracted by his own inner turmoil. But he had been trained too well to let her strike, his large palm catching her fist and absorbing the force of the blow as he looked up in shocked surprise.

"Fight me," Talia hissed, ripping her fist away from him as she fell into a defensive stance. Bane did not respond, taking in her change in demeanor. "Fight me!" She commanded louder, her face still ablaze with emotion. Bane stood, towering over her; not considering her request in the slightest, but not wanting to offend her. There was no doubt she had become a skilled fighter in the short time she had lived with her father, but still. She was no match for him; she seemed to realize this as well, but did not back down, her eyes now calculating as she planned her next move.

She swung again, and Bane dodged, circling out of her range as she glared angrily at him. "Talia, stop this," he commanded, his gaze intense. She paused for a moment, hesitating at the command in his voice, before moving again, aiming a kick at his side. Bane barely escaped that one, the blow grazing his back as he ducked out of the way, irritation written upon his brow.

"Why do you hold back? I know you hate me," she spat out, her emotions finally taking hold of her as she circled him, biting the inside of her cheek to stop the tears that threatened to well in her eyes.

Bane stopped short, stunned.

Is that what she thought?

God, how wrong she was.

"Talia, I.." he began, but she did not give him the chance, charging at him with a cry of frustration, her punches wild and too random to be truly aimed to injure him. She was lashing out. Bane blocked what blows he could, dodging some and taking the force of the others. Talia danced away from him, angry tears now spilling down her face as she tried to focus, to anticipate Bane's movements and seek out the best time to strike.

She did not get the chance.

Bane lunged, surprisingly agile for someone so large, and while Talia was quicker than him, he had caught her off guard, not expecting him to attack her. She dodged, but he grabbed hold of her arm, pulling her body to him and propelling them to the ground. He managed to pin her arms at her sides once they hit the floor, Bane grunting from the blow and Talia gasping, struggling futilely to free herself. He studied at her, taking in her shocked expression. "You think I am weak," she accused suddenly, glaring up at him venomously. His gaze hardened, trying to comprehend where she had gotten such a ridiculous notion.

"Talia, enough of this. I do not hate you, nor do I think you are weak." He said roughly, his insides aching at the sight of her tears. She squirmed out of his grasp, crawling out of his reach, her fists still balled at her sides. "Then why did you push me away last night?" she asked quietly, defeated. "Is it because I failed my lesson with my-"

"No," came the gruff response, cutting her off. She looked up, not expecting him to protest to vehemently. "Talia, I..." and he trailed off, not knowing how to respond. What could he say that would make it better, that would not reveal the true reason why he had pushed her away? Could he really admit to a child so young that he could no longer see her as the child he had raised; that she had changed. He remained silent, pulling her to him as she curled into his protective embrace. "I did not mean to hurt you, little one," he said finally, and Talia accepted his apology, the anger rushing out of her as quickly as it had come. She could not stay mad at him; not when his eyes pleaded so ardently for her own happiness. She could hear the sincerity in his voice, even if she knew there was more to it; more that he was not telling. But she let herself be content with his embrace, her head resting against his large chest as she listened to his steady heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest finally lulling her to a dreamless sleep as Bane pressed a cool hand to her forehead, the touch of his hand blissful against her fevered skin.

* * *

_**10 years later**_

* * *

"Do you remember the first time we sparred?" Talia asked, her eyes trained on her opponent. He circled her, taking in her question, before throwing a heavy punch at her, hoping to catch her off guard. Talia was faster, though, dodging out of the way, her eyes ablaze as she waited for his response. Bane smirked, or what Talia knew was a smirk, the skin around his eyes crinkling as his eyes danced with mischief.

"I remember you throwing a few weak punching in my direction, if that is what you are referring to, my dear." Talia muttered a curse in Arabic under her breath before attacking him again, throwing a quick-paced volley of punches at him, connecting a few times, though Talia knew it would take much more than a few connecting blows to best him. It was like punching a brick wall.

Talia danced away, mirroring his movements with her own as they danced around the room, Talia hoping to tire the giant, and Bane looking for an opening to catch the agile woman.

He struck first, spinning and nearly catching her with his fist, putting all of his power and force into the blow, which Talia used against him, using his own weight to propel him down as she twisted, catching him in a headlock and using her weight to throw them down, Bane managing to roll them both until she was pinned under him, her sweat-soaked body pressed to his as she clutched onto him, trying to choke him out.

"I seem to remember you underestimating me," she continued, and Bane worked his arm up between her strong grip, flinging her off of him as he stood up quickly. He laughed, catching his breath as the mask distorted his chuckling. Talia narrowed her gaze, feigning irritation, as Bane smiled, mirth alight in his eyes.

"Is that what we're calling it now?" He chuckled, "you pinned underneath me and flailing about? I did not know the criteria for becoming the next Demonhead was so lax..." He trailed off as she attacked, a smile still on her face as she struck a hard blow to his kidneys, Bane merely grunting in response. She spun, aiming to strike his throat, but he managed to block with his forearm, taking the sharp blow as his other fist swung around at her head. Talia ducked under the path of his fist, swinging her leg out to catch him hard in the knees. Bane grunted as he tumbled down, catching Talia by the fabric of her tunic and pulling her with him until she fell on top of him, the breath leaving him in a hiss as her full weight fell against him. Talia straddled him, her arms pinning his as her body pressed closely against him.

"I think I have won, my friend," she teased, her grin feral as she moved against him. Bane's gaze was darkened as his body responded. "And this time, you cannot push me away," she challenged. Bane stared for a moment, stunned at her sharp memory as she grinned down at him. His fists tightened, and he grabbed her hips firmly, rolling them until she was pinned underneath him, her grin predatory as his mask hissed, her legs still wrapped tightly around his waist, his braced hand coming to tangle in the dark curls that had fallen free of her braid.

He had long ago learned his lesson in patience. This time, he would not be so lenient.

* * *

**AN**: Really sorry for the wait everyone. This chapter became much longer than intended. I'll try to update more frequently. Also, there will be copious amounts of smut in the next chapter, in case any of you were disappointed.  
Also, if you're looking for more Bane/Talia, check out my new story, Club of Shadows


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